


the voice of experience?

by fannishcodex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Dragons, Gen, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishcodex/pseuds/fannishcodex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Watch it destroy him. Watch it corrupt his heart. Watch it drive him mad." (Or a recollection from Smaug's past.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the voice of experience?

**Author's Note:**

> First time ever taking artistic license with a Tolkien fic ever. Love Smaug, so this is like my first tribute fic to him. Fic inspired by the fact that canonically, the Arkenstone's exact origin is pretty vague. Inpsired by lore featured in other TV/Film stories. Inspired by movie adaptation additions in content and dialogue, etc. Inspired by some dragon lore in the original Tolkien books. Special thanks to avelera and editoress for encouragement on Hobbit fic writing.

The hatchling was as big as one of them, maybe two. But there were far more than two and they had startled him and their chains were biting, choking—  
  
One wrapped around his jaws, more tangled around his wings, his legs. Another around his throat, the flame building up in his chest. His jaws would not open no matter how much he willed them to, the chains there held fast, and the ones around his throat squeezed even further, the flame was trapped in his chest, it would explode straight through his skin and bone and flimsy hatchling scales—  
  
What felt like a torrent of water thrown over him was worse, a horrible cold shock that made his flame hiss and shriek and die. The hatchling's gold eyes squeezed shut and he felt stung all over. He shivered and slumped over with a strangled whimper shuddering deep in his constricted throat.  
  
"Think we'll need another bucket of water—"  
  
"No, the beast is done—"  
  
He felt one of them close in, and he frantically, angrily lashed out with a chained leg, the chain metal clanging—he felt the claws of his foot hook something, felt something spurt wet, and heard shouts.  
  
 _Hold on hold on hold on_  
  
The chain around his neck suddenly yanked forward, and he gagged once more deep in his throat, his closed jaws giving another twitch. But the hatchling kept his claws hooked, and one of the shouts was turning increasingly pained.  
  
"Enough, just kill the damn thing!"  
  
"But chief wanted— "  
  
"There'll be no training the beast no matter how small it is right now, it's already too wild—"  
  
“But what about selling—”  
  
“ _No one would be daft enough to want to buy a live one_!”  
  
The hatchling thought he heard bone beginning to crack, and wondered if they were not going to choke him to death, if they intended to break his neck instead, or simply pull his head straight off—  
  
“But someone would probably buy a dead one—”  
  
“ _Not my point_!”  
  
"Mad idea to begin with—"  
  
"'Least we'll have the scales and the—"  
  
" _GET THE DAMN THING OFF_!"  
  
The hatchling felt the claws on his foot starting to lose purchase, foot shaking and twitching like mad—the chain kept pulling, it hurt so bad, everything hurt...his face became wet, slick with more blood, where else was he bleeding now…?  
  
He heard something fall into the dirt. He heard that sound repeat. It became the loudest thing, the enemies who hurt him growing quieter, even the one he had managed to pierce. There was only their breathing, and that dropping sound—he realized it reminded him of pebbles falling.  
  
Opening his eyes, the hatchling blinked—for they were the loveliest pebbles that fell, precious stones that were full of fragmented light and color, falling so close. _Gemstones, jewels_. But where they fell from, he couldn't quite see, he moved to see, tried to move carefully, minding the blood that still poured from his face and the aching across his whole body and the chains that still bound him and the scent of his enemies—  
  
He stilled as the next stones' direction altered slightly at his move. Were they falling on top of him? From where, there were only trees—were there trees that could bear jewels like they could bear fruit and flowers? The hatchling tried to tilt his head as far up as the chain—which tightened at his movement—would allow him to look up. Nothing, and he still heard the precious stones fall, though he noted they were slower. They were probably almost done falling, their supply exhausted, and it felt like the blood on his face was starting to dry.  
  
He gave a strangled yell deep in his throat as the chain suddenly pulled on him again, and kept pulling and pulling—yanked him down into the dirt, muzzle and face first. Again, the hatchling squeezed his eyes shut. Even the chains around his jaws tightened. There, what scales that had grown by now, only cracked further; and skin where no scales had grown before, tore even more.  
  
"Make it do it again!"  
  
"Damn thing's not—!"  
  
" _Make it do it again_!"  
  
He felt something slam and rip through the membrane of his wing and his scream sprung up, again the sound only half-blocked by the jaws tied shut. His face was wet with blood again, and his imagination went frantic, imagining the rip had been so bad that blood from it had splashed his face. The hatchling opened his eyes, daring to sneak a glance at the state of his wing. He stopped—at this certain angle, he did not see red blood slip off his face, but something else. Wet too, but more—It was not red like blood, definitely not, but the color, he could not tell. The hatchling watched the fluid slip and fall, and consolidate and harden before it hit the ground. The hardened fluid gleamed with light and color. The precious stones. It...they…what?  
  
It was beyond his comprehension at the moment.  
  
All of the chains pulled, dragging him away from where the stones lay. He blinked as the enemies who did not hold his chains fell upon the precious stones that had spilled from his body. They scrambled like flies he had seen fall upon the occasional dead body on the roads he wandered, when his developing wings desired a reprieve and he grew curious about the land itself.   
  
Reprieve and curiosity this time were costing him dearly now, this road was no safe path.  
  
And then they fell upon him, hurting and _hurting_ , and the sounds of the shining stones hitting the dirt rang in his ears so loud until he wanted to claw his own eyes out to stop them from falling. Finally the darkness claimed him, and he sank into it with a shuddering relief.  
  
Coming to their senses, the dwarves dragged the dragon hatchling and the gemstones he had shed back to their camp, desperate to keep him alive.  
  
###  
  
Still they called him only "beast," never asking for his name. Smaug found it preferable. For some reason the thought of his name on their lips repulsed him to no end.  
  
A while ago, what he assumed were his parents had only been unmoving bodies that he found some similarity with. One shared his color for the most part, the other had wings like him, and there were other points they had in common. But they were so much larger than him, a fact he was in awe of. And though they had scales like he did, they had more—not just because of their superior size, but it looked as if all their scales were grown in, while his were still developing with large patches of flesh still left bare. Their scales also looked older, with scars carved into them, and some looked a little twisted out of place.   
  
Smaug had sheltered with them for a time in their meager cave, scattered with some silver, gold, precious stones and the like, though scent told him it had been filled with more before. He stayed until his curiosity about the wider world grew too great. But they, their bodies so still and worn—clearly they did not name him. That came from the ravens roosting in the trees outside that cave. They had taken some interest in the orphaned hatchling, even giving him his name. (Perhaps his stumbling attempts to fly reminded them of their own chicks.) It was a name he had accepted without question; it was only later that he grew to revel in it.   
  
Yes, instinct found his captors’ tongues unworthy to utter his name. Or perhaps he was just petulant over the fact that they kept him constantly muzzled, on top of being caged. It had been another unlucky turn when one of the dwarves had convinced the others that he could not be starved to death, thus it was far safer to keep that fire-breathing mouth of his closed at all times, as if regularly dousing him with water was not enough. (Perhaps they were concerned he would snap and futilely blow his own chest out in a desperate struggle to breathe fire...something Smaug, upon reflection and not during a panic, could not identify as physically possible or not.) The hatchling had tried to feign starvation, but none of his captors seemed to accept it. How could he pretend starvation? Apparently witnessing it in other creatures was not enough. He had never needed food the way they did, and definitely no thirst for water. Smaug had gone on and on, only stopping when he slept.  
  
Sleep did not actually prove elusive to Smaug while imprisoned and under torture. Exhuastion from the violence actually made sleep easier to succumb to. But the hatchling had not grown accustomed enough to the dwarves’ strikes to resist crying the gemstones they coveted and hoarded. Still, he was certain he would achieve that self-control eventually.   
  
Though he was also growing certain that when it happened, his captors would finally kill him, his value in life lost, while the value of his death would make its grand return. Smaug at least had managed to secure enough of his wits to start keeping track of how many precious stones he shed in his agony. It had helped that he started to register a dark, twisted, cold feeling emanating from each jewel-tear, by scent and air and other senses exclusive to him. According to his count, Smaug knew the dwarves should have enough to turn a profit, enough for a fortune. He felt vindicated when he spied his captors’ growing joy, and observed their own recordkeeping, and brainstorming over what to use their misbegotten gems for. Should his tears cease and their well of jewels dry up, they would not truly lose anything by finally killing him. They only continued their business with him out of a desire for more wealth.  
  
And even when death ended that business, they could start another. They could still grow rich off his body, though with selling his scales, and other things to curious collectors, rather than the precious stones he could shed. Who knows, maybe when dissecting his body, when they got to his eyes, the source of the gems, maybe more and more would spill out, more to satisfy their lust…how was Smaug to know, he had not known that he could cry, and what his tears could make....  
  
The hatchling weighed his options between release from the cage and release from life. It was a serious consideration, as Smaug had yet to think of a means of escape. The dwarves’ cage was well-crafted, and located in a cave, with Smaug clueless about how far it was from the surface, he had been unconscious while they transported him from the wood; and the dwarves’ guard was airtight. At least, it was all too much for him, and his weakened state. Growing monotony was the worst actually; if it provided something different, death may be preferable. And yet there was a strong desire to win. If he timed his jewel-tears to stop merely to invite his own death, it felt so much like letting the dwarves have their final victory. Emerge triumphant.  
  
Unacceptable.  
  
And it was a pretty sentiment that was not doing him much good beyond preserving his will to live and resist. Which was probably enough. But at this point, Smaug was probably better off hoping the one dwarf—Number Seven, he had simply kept track of them by number, he reciprocated their disinterest in proper names—would cave into his guilt. That dwarf obviously felt the most pity for the hatchling's sorry state. Number Seven volunteered the most for the duty of doing the bare minimum to tend to his wounds; his captors were certain he could not starve and had seen through his bluff, but they were uncertain about death to infection and illness. (It might have helped that Smaug himself was not entirely sure about that either, he could not tell if he had grown sick from his ill treatment or just generally felt weakened by it all.) And besides, Number Seven was, in Smaug’s opinion, the most competent healer of the group, his touch the most gentle. The hatchling would shoot him his most demanding glare, calling for his superior skill; at least Smaug would have the best while imprisoned as a living jewel mine, and at this point whatever relief he could get was deeply craved....  
  
Yet Number Seven’s pity also manifested as being the most noticeably torn between feeling something for the hatchling, and dreams of a lengthy supply of precious stones. At least Smaug was well aware that those dreams always won out, and how they would truly be more valuable to Number Seven than any scrap of pity. And even if Number Seven gave into this pity, he may think a mercy kill was better recompense than actual freedom.   
  
At least Smaug had more than one desperate, impossible hope; he could always hope that someone on the outside would answer the bounty on these dwarves’ heads. The hatchling had overheard enough of their conversation to understand that these were outlaws from their society. (How fortunate that they were careless enough to keep a makeshift dining and storage space outside his cage in the cave they resided, or perhaps they thought him a creature lacking that much sentience.) The concept of law and order still puzzled Smaug; of organizing, only to condemn those who diverged from such organizing…is that what it was? But if it meant the removal of his captors and his freedom, he would not question it again.   
  
Still, those far-flung hopes were irritating at best, idiotic at worst. They all depended on waiting for another’s action; Smaug wanted to take action _himself_.   
  
The hatchling gave another muffled growl of frustration. He was certain that if the dwarven bandits were not keeping him weak through torture and regularly drenching him with water, he could have broken out of the cage through steady force. (And if he were not some hatchling whelp, the whole matter would not even be an issue.)  
  
Smaug sniffed—the twisted scent of his jewel-tears grew more tangled. The hatchling felt he did, at the very least, now understand (even a little) that his tears, once solid as precious stones, also sealed in all of his black twisted feeling at the time they were shed. He had felt it, the magic under his scales, though he had never completely understood it; the ravens had spoken of it before, telling him that his kind were made of magic and ill will born by Another. (Smaug had treasured their stories and chatter, as well as the occasional riddle.) Smaug did not fail to notice that the shift in the jewel-tears occurred just when the dwarves’ joy began to sour. They had simply started to…get irritated with each other’s company. More than the norm. They started to clash. The number of snide comments increased until they blossomed into full-blown arguments, sometimes with fists and bloodied noses. Their glances over the jewel-tears grew longer and even more covetous. They contested how many of the precious stones went to whom. It was not only their relationship that suffered; Smaug did not entirely benefit, for the dwarves now fought over whose turn it was to extract jewels from the hatchling, trusting more to the concept of harvesting their own profit and thinking that claim indisputable.   
  
Smaug was not entirely disadvantaged either. Distracted with company turmoil and heightened focus on the precious stones, the dwarves' attention slipped enough that they no longer took care to practice the delicate balance in how they treated the wound in his wing: keeping it from infection, but never letting it fully heal. Smaug had long feared they would tear both appendages off to ensure flight was not viable. If they doused him with water on a regular basis and kept his mouth muzzled to avoid his flame, why not cage him _and_ utterly cripple his mobility? Did their fear of infection run that deep? Perhaps they had always worried that such mutilation would kill him immediately and prematurely, from physical and emotional shock (Smaug rather thought that would be the case, he could not imagine life wingless). But without their prodding, the hole in his wing finally began to scar over and heal.  
  
Thus the hatchling almost went into something of a panic attack when they noticed their lapse in careful precaution. Smaug had caught Number Seven’s eye, his demanding glare slipping into a more frantic pleading one— _you, tend to me, it must be you_. And as always Number Seven complied.  
  
As always.  
  
Smaug regarded his favorite dwarf healer with some new wonder as a thought sank in, and a certain instinct finally stirred, one that emanated magic. He tried catching Number Seven’s eye again, when he finally entered his cage to deal with his wing. _Not too much_ , Smaug communicated with a glance, his mind’s low whisper; _let the wing heal, do any worse to it now, and it will grow infected, and it will spread until the beast is dead, and you can never have another dragon-shed jewel, never have **more**_....  
  
Though he had wondered, had started to suspect, the hatchling still felt a great surge of amazement when it actually worked—for the most part, Number Seven listened. Only when Smaug’s injured wing relaxed did he realize how tense it had grown.   
  
Desperation surged faster and stronger than the amazement. Let me out, his eyes and mind screamed at the dwarf. _Release me, let me escape, just let me go_!  
  
Number Seven blinked, squeezed his eyes shut, grabbed his head—and left, leaving the hatchling in his cage.  
  
Rather than disappointment overwhelming him, Smaug sighed and grumbled. So he could not push too hard, damn it....  
  
He would have to push a little then. And a little would be all he needed—just a spark, for the dwarven bandits that were steadily twisting into a powder keg.  
  
###  
  
Memorizing his captors’ schedule, the hatchling began to prepare. He would be in the middle of the ruse, when Number Seven arrived to check on the most recent wounds after the last jewel-tear extraction. The dwarven bandits employed a two-man system, a guard to watch over his comrade either doing the torturing or healing. Smaug planned to rely on this fact.   
  
Today's guard would be Number Three, who had exhausted his turn at jewel-tear extraction last week, and left Smaug coughing up so much blood. That dwarf had been forced to temporarily remove his muzzle to ensure he did not choke. It had happened too fast, and that dwarf’s control of the situation too tight, for Smaug to try a serious attempt at escape then, but it had ultimately inspired his current plan (and he had gloried in being able to move his jaw even just a little).   
  
Additionally, Number Three seemed fond enough of Number Seven, though Smaug had seen even their relationship begin to strain. It was just another detail to rely on. Especially helpful was the dwarven guard's current distraction with again counting out the jewel-tears he had extracted last week, dreaming over them. He would not truly understand that Smaug would be pretending, rather than being genuine.  
  
Biting the inside of his cheek, Smaug let the blood pool in his mouth. He wanted to make sure enough of it seeped out of his mouth, so that it was visible. Its freshness should make it stark against the blood stains already there, and there were few this time. (This morning’s attack had been more focused on his chest and back, and he had only coughed up a little bit of blood.) Smaug also bit slightly into his tongue, enough for a decent addition of spilt blood, and enough to seem like he truly had tried to bite through his tongue and choke on it, an idea he wanted to present as the truth.  
  
Smaug had never starved before, he did not understand it—but he knew being gagged, choked, clawing for breath. He could simulate that. And there was the chain already connected to the metal collar around his neck. The hatchling had tried pulling on it before, to no avail. This time he tangled himself further in it, and tugged—not to escape, but to make a show of choking himself. And essentially he did choke himself a bit; never mind simple simulation, he had to be convincing. The illusion of trying to bite through his tongue and choke on it, the illusion of trying to strangle himself—he was doubling up on methods just as much as his captors.  
  
Feeling the chain bite into his neck and his throat constrict and the blood stream and making strangled noises, Smaug fancied he was quite the sight. He felt vindicated when the guard finally startled at the sounds, and when Number Seven entered, he dropped his basin of medical supplies in shock. (The hatchling was pleased that his attempt at timing had paid off.)  
  
"You were supposed to be watching him—"  
  
No matter how many times Smaug had been doused with water, the splash of it still made him shudder and feel drained. (His captors were always so careful to keep their stock of water ready and available.)  
  
"Just help me get the damn thing off!"  
  
Smaug gasped, sputtering blood when the muzzle came off. He sucked in as much air as he could, it felt good to using something other than his nostrils to breathe in air. The hatchling stretched and unhinged his jaw, reveling in the mobility. (The dwarves did not even check the inside of his mouth or state of his tongue, thank the stars.) And the temptation was so great, to just lunge forward and sink his teeth in the dwarves complicit in his imprisonment and torture, they were so close, he fancied he could hear their pounding hearts....  
  
Instead the hatchling forced himself to choke out the words, "Thank you."  
  
If his fire had not been doused, he would be breathing it in his sudden rage at the way the dwarves startled, and one said, "Y-you speak?" So they had thought him to be a mindless creature. (At least their stupid shock should hopefully throw them off guard and make them even more susceptible.)  
  
Trying to restrain himself and keep the plan going, Smaug both feigned and revealed weakness when he croaked out in a small voice, "Of course." Still petulant, but he rather thought it would work to share that genuine feeling. Yes, it seemed best to combine fact and fiction for this. But he had to be careful, it would be a delicate dance.  
  
"You sound like...." Number Seven started and stopped, and Smaug _did_ snap at that.  
  
"Sound like what?" The hatchling snarled.  
  
"A boy, just a...child."  
  
Too impatient to analyze what new conflicted emotions were running across the dwarf's face, or his comrade's uncomfortable look, Smaug rolled his eyes, snapping his jaws shut. "Obviously—you wouldn't have had a _chance_ of catching me like this if I were fully grown."   
  
The hatchling spat his blood out at the dwarves' feet, his true anger tinged by some amusement at how they had flinched, and the one playing guardsman had reached for the water pail. Clearly they had feared he had somehow regained his fire before they could stop it in time. (If only.)   
  
"It must be disappointing to you, to find _this_ —” and Smaug gestured a chain to the blood he had spat on the floor. “—does not harden into rubies." And Smaug flashed a glare up at them, catching their eyes.  
  
Then his glare relaxed somewhat, turning contemplative, as he laid back down and nestled his head on his folded wings, even the scarring one (it was healing well enough). Still he stared into the dwarves' eyes.   
  
"But you're getting on well, aren't you? Getting your fair share of my gems, if I understand correctly," Smaug said, trailing off and watching them think on that. Again he was amused, this time by the sight of the gears in their minds turning.   
  
Smaug tilted his head to Number Seven. "And a bonus for you, surely? For the consistent care you render me." The hatchling tried not to smile at the look the other dwarf shot his comrade, and the sense of dawning entitlement in Number Seven's eyes. "If I had control over my own gems, I would give you more—your hands are competent, and provide the most comfort." Harder not to grin as Number Seven looked ever so slightly flattered.  
  
"Silence, beast," snapped the guard, and Smaug flinched, wanting to show that he was still rather demoralized, beaten and desperate (partial truths).  
  
"Now, now, I won't leave you out—no hypotheticals, I _can_ give you both more. Give more to the rest of your company if you wish, and let you continue the fair division of shares." Smaug pressed on before there could be any more protest. "Did you think I was parentless?"  
  
He could not help it, the hatchling chuckled at how pale both dwarves suddenly grew. "Oh, I am—but their deaths did not leave me penniless." Perhaps the biggest lie he could tell. Smaug recalled only the smallest treasure hoard among their bodies. The amount of jewel-tears he had been forced to shed by now far outnumbered what they had left behind.   
  
Of course, his captors had no idea of knowing that.   
  
"But I wanted to see more of the world, and I could not do that carrying so much treasure—for it is so much treasure they left to me. Vast piles of gold and jewels, precious metals and precious stones, more than I have shed for you, all buried deep within a mountain." Smaug explained it all with his eyes boring into the dwarves', and also thinking with his glance, _I speak only the truth_. "I will pay for my freedom with all of my inheritance, you can. Have. It. _All_."   
  
Smaug closed his eyes as the dwarven guard scrambled to douse him with a refilled water pail. He opened them again after his skin had stopped hissing, and caught both the dwarves' eyes again, already filled with hunger. In between his desperate attempt at a dragon-spell, his jewel-tears wreaking havoc on their psyches and their own greed and growing distrust of each other, the dwarves' mental resistance did seem rather low.   
  
"I know little of your ways with maps and geography—I've not been in this world for very long, after all. So do not think of turning your torture upon me to extract the information that will lead you to this mountain. I simply do not know how to explain to you the directions for finding my parents' hoard. I must lead you to it." _Let me lead you to it_ , his glance echoed.    
  
And though he was tempted to change his mind and force action now, Smaug kept to his plan, and said, "You can have time to think over my offer." He remembered the schedule, and had watched his captors as much as possible; the hatchling knew more of the dwarves would notice their comrades' delay and eventually come to investigate. "You will surely need time to discuss the matter with the rest of your company." Smaug resisted the urge to smirk at the unsettled, suspicioius, and hesitant look he spied on the dwarves.  
  
They muzzled him again, doused him once more with water, and Number Seven finally tended to his wounds, though this time his hands were distracted. Smaug did not mind, lazily watching him and Number Three leave, trading guard shifts with another dwarf. Smaug would not be due for another extraction until later in the afternoon, which sweetened his mood; the hatchling was confident those two miserable dwarves would not tell another soul of what had just transpired. He felt ever so pleased when the next few days gave no hint that anyone else knew. It remained their secret. Smaug felt even more vindicated as he watched the relationship between Number Seven and Number Three deteriorate even more. Smaug's plan had secured a good start.   
  
Now he just had to wait.  
  
###  
  
Bursts of noise woke Smaug from his sleep, and he sniffed the air. Metallic, coppery, sharp—the scent of blood. His eyes widened. The noises became more clear—clang of metal, twang of bow, shouting, various sounds of impact.  
  
The hatchling tensed, waiting. Down the steps stumbled Number Three, the guard who had witnessed his offer, holding a hand to his bleeding side and a dripping sword in the other. He was quite alone.  
  
How accommodating, for that dwarf to seek his eyes, and Smaug eagerly caught them.  
  
“Your offer?” The dwarf hissed, looking quite dazed and more than a little deranged, while he leaned against the wall. (Smaug idly wondered if it was Number Seven’s blood that coated his sword.)  
  
The hatchling nodded, his eyes saying, _It still stands_.  
  
Number Three heaved himself off the wall and toward his cage. The dwarf took a moment to yank down a medical kit from one of the storage shelves, and dress his wound. Then he took up the water pail, filled it, opened Smaug’s cage, soaked him and reached for his chains. The hatchling vibrated with pleasure as every scrap of metal finally came off, though new pains registered with his mind: flesh left raw and sore, scales left dented and gouged.  
  
Smaug stretched his limbs as much as his wounds would allow. He could not keep the grin off his face, but still he watched Number Three, considering. If he ended this dwarf now, he would have to make it quick; but if it were later, while he led this dwarf to false treasure, he could prolong it, something that he was sorely tempted to do....  
  
“Behind you,” Smaug said in an amused voice, as he saw Number Seven come down the stairs with his bow and arrow drawn. Number Three heeded the warning, turning and twisting so that the arrow struck his shoulder rather than the middle of his throat.  
  
The hatchling took his time stretching his freed wings while he watched the dwarves battle.   
  
He found the entire fight rather surprisingly quick. Number Three just barreled forward, hard and fast, sword cutting down the new arrows fired at him. Number Seven dropped bow, but not arrow, tightening his grip around it—then both dwarves were a flash of colored cloth as they crashed to the ground. Someone gurgled. The sword covered in fresh blood fell from a limp hand. Number Three had been on top of Number Seven, who now kicked him off. Smaug could see the arrow sticking out of Number Three’s throat, its target found. The hatchling grinned, satisfied and relieved. His grin widened, when he saw the large gash on Number Seven, from hip across the chest up to a red slit in his own throat that seemed to grow larger and larger.   
  
Smaug took one step out of the cage, savoring the way his body bypassed the bars. Another step, and then another, stepping into the blood of Number Three and crouching low to his corpse, sniffing it. Reassured that one of his tormentors was definitely dead, Smaug experimentally bit into his flesh. It tasted foul, but still he wanted more, that further reassurance that he had won and would never be hurt again. He ripped off an entire chunk, and swallowed. Definitley, absolutely, so wonderfully _dead_.   
  
The hatchling's eyes had never really left Number Seven, who had slid to the ground, with only his shoulders propped up against the first step of the stairs. Smaug saw him reach twitching fingers for his bow, but felt no concern. It was not only because the hatchling knew his enemy was too weak and dying, but he had also noticed that the bow had cracked in half, undoubtedly breaking when the dwarves crashed to the floor and on top of it. It was all futile.  
  
Besides, his fire was returning.  
  
The hatchling eye’s glowed with pleasure and revenge as his chest began to light up with the breath he had been longing to exhale for weeks. He caught the eyes of Number Seven one last time, savoring the look of horror in the dwarf’s eyes.  
  
Then Smaug breathed, and Number Seven screamed.  
  
###  
  
The hatchling ran high on burning and tasting and slaying dwarven foes and moving freely unchained, he would fly soon, soon! But he knew better than to take on the other dwarves while he was still weak, wounded, and outnumbered. Thus Smaug went up the stairs, where he found that the mouth of the cave was not very far after all. Upon exiting, he sank low to the ground, for outside the cave was some form of encampment, through which bloodied dwarves darted through as they fought.   
  
The hatchling zeroed in on the trees that surrounded the encampment's clearing. Smaug carefully crawled toward them, with his ears pricked, nostrils flared, and eyes wide for the constant sound, scent, and sight of battling dwarves. The hatchling felt his apprehension return; though the dwarves seemed focused entirely on each other and mad with paranoia and blood lust, he still rather wanted to bypass them unseen. What if, should they catch him trying to escape, they forgot their conflict and united one more time to recapture him?  
  
The anxiety was enough to make Smaug freeze and snap back, curling behind a barrel as three or four dwarves toppled and rolled where he was about to step. The trees were so near now, inviting, but he dared not move until they left or died or his hiding spot was threatened. They slew each other—no, one survived, but barely. Smaug could wait for him to slip unconscious, slowly die...or hurry that along....  
  
The hatchling glanced all around him. The sounds of battle continued, though they had dimmed, and there was no one else about. There really was only that one dwarf standing between him and the safety of the woods. Making his decision, Smaug moved as quietly and swiftly as he could, and took the last remaining dwarf from behind, sinking his teeth into his neck and twisting before he could make another sound that could possibly alert anyone. The hatchling tossed him aside and crept on toward the wood.   
  
Another few feet and he was up in a tree, and Smaug savored the feel of wood underneath claw. From the leaves, his gold eyes swept the encampment one more time: a number of dwarves were already dead, and a number were still busy fighting each other. No one had noticed his disappearance, and no one would. The hatchling journeyed deeper into the wood, and only when the sound of the fighting and the dying had faded, did Smaug take flight.  
  
And almost crashed back to the dirt. His wings felt drained, the other with the fresh scarring screamed, but the adrenaline still rushed; Smaug pumped his wings harder and thought only of the sky. He managed to twist up and break the tree line with a total absence of grace. His flight remained wobbly and inelegant, but the hatchling flew, he glided, he escaped.  
  
###  
   
When Smaug found others of his kind, he learned more of his heritage, of what he could shed, what had been extracted from him again and again. The elder Dread-glance Gostir told him that what they shed, their kind called fell stones, shed in their utmost pain and grief and rage. He spoke of the foul magic they contained, their last bitter revenge. For dragons were not meant to weep, and when they did, worse things followed.   
  
_Even in the strangest ways_ , Smaug pondered as he lifted up what the dwarves had called the "Arkenstone"—but the firedrake knew full well what it was. What a strange coincidence it should be here, and he to unwittingly fulfill its dark promise. He had only thought of a lair and treasure to claim.  
  
The so-called Arkenstone was unmistakably like the tears he had shed years and years ago (so long ago, Smaug did not recall what it was like to be small and vulnerable, but the rage— _that_ , he remembered). The light, the fragmented and dazzling light; the dark, cold sense of tangled magic and emotion; all similar, but _amplified_. This fell stone was far larger, and oozed greater and darker malevolence. He had not recognized its call from beyond the mountain's reach, but once in the treasure chamber, it rang clear and loud, and he had followed. With its superior size and intensity, it could not be a hatchling dragon's tear. Smaug guessed it belonged to an adolescent at the very least, an adult at the very most.   
  
Smaug slowly spun the giant fell stone in his wing claw, idly wondering what could have caused the mystery dragon to shed such a tear, and what that dragon was like, had that dragon lived in this mountain long before Erebor's inception and his own plunder?  
  
The fire drake flicked the fell stone aside, dismissing it. Dwarves _would_ worship such a thing—but not he, or his kind. It was at the very least a contemptible trinket to remind his kind of their own breaking points, that such things _did_ exist.  
  
Smaug heard the jingle of coins and the clink of the fell stone, though he cared not for where it landed. If it had not already been part of the treasure he won, the fire drake would have seriously considered outright destroying the cursed thing. He had done it before, ages ago; as a hatchling still, he had gone back, carefully at first, then boldly treading the encampment once he realized all his captors were dead and carrion for the birds. Smaug had gathered all the jewel-tears they had forced him to shed, then breathed fire on them until his throat and chest ached and nothing of those glittering stones were left.  
  
But this was not his tear, not his fell stone, and though still repulsive, it was a part of his victory after all. He would keep it to complete his ownership.  
  
And so Smaug, fully grown and in his prime, and riding high on his triumph, curled up and slept, dreaming of violence and greed.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed. (And a main feature of this fic actually has a trope on TVTropes: "Body to Jewel"—and it does mentions dragons.)


End file.
